Giants
by Iridian's Legacy
Summary: 30 years ago, Stanford Pines and Fiddleford McGucket began working on a machine that would bridge the worlds. It's not all as simple as it sounds. [EDIT: This has a become a series of one-shots with some level of continuity, but they are currently not in chronological order. Contains SPOILERS for the series as a whole. Rated T just to be safe.]
1. Who Are You Working With?

**[AN]: WARNING! THIS STORY CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE EPISODE "THE LAST MABELCORN" AND THE SERIES AS A WHOLE.**

 **Hey! I can't really find much to preface this with other than that I watched TLM and fell in love with Stanford's past with Bill. Even more so, I wanted more of the deterioration between Stanford and Fiddleford, because those two are one heck of a dy-nerd-ic duo! (I'm soooooo funnehhh I'm sorry) That's this oneshot in a nutshell.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"Ford, I'm just trying to understand it all!" Fiddleford called from the next room. "I just wanted to know where you get your inspiration from!"

"And I said 'drop it,' Fiddleford!" Stanford shot back, shuffling papers around, setting aside artifacts and instruments. He knew he'd left his journal in this room, but where?

"There's no need to get so defensive." Fiddleford appeared in the doorway, cradling a stack of files in his arms. The brilliant mind would have barely filled the doorframe were it not for his lab coat to offer an authoritative air. Juggling the files, he quickly readjusted his glasses and pushed back a tuft of unkempt hair from his eyes. "The only reason I pursue the subject is your evasiveness. I was more than ready to attribute this sudden break in our studies to pure genius…" He edged his way to a desk, whose surfaced had been recently cleared in Stanford's frantic search, and set the files down heavily. He leafed through for one in particular. "But now—"

"Not now, Fiddleford!" Ford barked. "I can't find it—I can't find it!" Rushing from desk to desk, drawer to drawer, he sent a stack of notes flying like autumn leaves kicked up and scattered to chaos. Notes and sketches fluttered like snow back to the floor.

McGucket looked up from his own search, frowning. "Can't find what?"

Stanford pat the outside of his coat, checking the surplus of inside pockets for, "My journal, man, my journal! I left it in here, I know I did!" He ran fingers through his dirty, tangled hair. Subconsciously, he remembered how long it had been since he last showered, but all other thoughts were retracing his steps, picturing where he'd last seen a golden hand with the number 3 painted over.

Fiddleford sighed quietly, massaged the bridge of his nose where his glasses rubbed. "Where did you last see it?"

Ford ceased his pacing in the middle of the room to take a deep, shaking breath, trying to keep his six-fingered hands from trembling. Finally, he said, "In here. In the lounge. I had it in the lounge last."

"Where in the lounge?" Fiddleford continued, speaking in a calming tone, as one does to a child in the same situation.

"Don't you think I'd have it by now if I knew that?!" Ford exploded, turning to McGucket in a rage. "Do you even _think_ , Fiddleford? Sometimes I wonder!"

Instantly, Ford realized his mistake, but it was too late. He couldn't suck the words back in and cage them like smoke. He watched his words travel through the air and strike his friend in the chest, watched his face contort for a fleeting moment in anger, hurt, confusion. And just as the look appeared, it was gone. Because Fiddleford had trained himself not to bend to harsh words or to allow people access to that side of him—the side that wanted to run away at the first sign of conflict and apologize for doing absolutely nothing wrong.

Fiddleford narrowed his eyes in the heavy silence that followed, standing his ground across the room from his colleague.

Ford pressed his palms into his eyes. "Fiddleford…" he started. "I'm sorry. I overreacted. I'm just—"

"What is going _on_ with you lately?" Fiddleford interrupted. "This isn't like you at all, Stanford!"

Ford shook his head. "I know, I know."

"Have you been drinking?"

"What? No! Of course not!"

"You didn't find something crazy in the forest, did you? Something experimental—"

"No! It's nothing like that! I just need to find my journal…"

"Dangit, Stanford!" Fiddleford erupted. "This is about more than those journals of yours! You've been getting progressively more irritable the past few weeks; you get upset over the most trivial of things! The other day, you told me off for bringing coffee into the study. We've never had that problem, Stanford, and when I told you there was nothing that could be damaged in there, you argued that the smell was distracting. The _smell_?"

Fiddleford turned away to shuffle through the files, pulling out the thickest of the lot and rifling through it for a particular page. He took it in his fist and thrust it towards Stanford, taking a couple steps closer in spite of himself. "We've checked these equations over half a dozen times in the past week—heck, you did them yourself more than half of those times! But yesterday you had me do it _again_ because you thought an exponent had been dropped!" He slapped the paper onto Ford's chest, who reached up and held it there.

Ford gaped at him, unblinking. "I…I did?"

McGucket just continued: "And the _secrets_. This is a _partnership_ , Ford, not an employment. I'm not getting paid for assisting with this project, and believe it or not, I'm fine with that. Your machine is genius, and I'm more than happy to finish the job, but I can't do my part if you refuse to include me in the science of it all."

Ford let the sheet slip from his hand. "What do you mean? Of course I include you! You're just as much a part of this as I am!"

"You spend hours locked in that study by yourself!"

"Meditation is proven to stimulate the brain's rationality and thought processes!"

"To heck with it! Something is happening to you, Stanford, why can't you see that?"

"Because He's _helping_ me, Fiddleford!"

Silence settled back over the room like a tarp. Outside, a patch of clouds covered the sun, bathing the shack in overcast and sending the room into darkness.

"Wh—What?" Fiddleford stammered. "Wh—Who is?"

Ford gulped.

" _Who_ is helping you, Stanford? Who are you working with?"

He hadn't meant to tell him. He was going to wait until the portal was fully operational to reveal his muse. Bill Cipher had even asked that "the other one" be left out of their exchanges until the time was right.

Fiddleford waited, expected, but Ford stilled his jaw and averted his eyes. He'd promised, after all.

Instead, he admitted, "I…I haven't been getting much sleep."

Insult shadowed Fiddleford's eyes. " _Fine_ ," he spat. He crouched and snatched up the sheet of equations, and his coat flew about his ankles as he turned away. He took up the files up once more and shoved the paper into a random folder to keep it from flying away.

Ford felt his heart threaten to beat out his chest. "Fiddleford, wait!" He needed him to stay; he couldn't finish the portal by himself.

The young man stopped halfway out the door. "I'm not leaving," he said over his shoulder. "A deal's a deal. I'll stay and finish the portal, but not for you. What's happening here is some incredible science, and it's going to change the world…whether you share your secrets or not." He crossed the room's threshold, and the whine of the elevator resonated through the shack as Fiddleford made good on his promise, and headed down to work on the portal.

Ford listened to the doors slide open and closed, and to the wind buffeting against the windows as a storm rolled in like a giant's chariot, promising whip cracks and fire. Another long night.

He lowered himself to the rug and sat cross-legged, steadying his breathing until his heart no longer pounded, but pulsed softly against his sternum. The colors of the room seemed to sharpen with the peace, and beneath a table against the far wall, he spied a glimmer of light off a golden hand, upon which was painted a black number 3.

* * *

 **[AN]: Please review and let me know what you think! I take all manners of criticism!**

 **Poor Ford, right? :( When it came to each character: I found myself focusing on Alex's description of Fiddleford as sensitive, gentle, and kind, but Fiddleford is also very strong when we boil him down. He can stand up for himself, as seen in AToTS, and despite his current goofy disposition, he's not an idiot. In fact, he's a genius, and sets his priorities rationally.**

 **Ford...I love Ford, don't get me wrong, but dangit it man, he's got issues. The problem with Ford is his tendency to push the people he is closest to away (Stan, Fiddleford...he lives in a shack in the middle of the woods), even though he may not realize that he's doing it. Despite his intelligence, he fails to listen to reason, and the lengths he goes to are always extreme for the sake of his goals. His priorities, to say the least, are a little out of balance. Hopefully being around the rest of the Pines family will fix that.**

 **I've been wanting to write a oneshot about these two since I saw TLM. (It's the shortest one I've ever written o-o hopefully my concision is improving...I'll need it for college...) But if you're following "Where Do I Sign?" fear not! It is not forgotten!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~~Iridian~~**


	2. On the Dangers of Splicing

**[AN]:** **Warning: The first portion of this one-shot describes violent vomiting, so please be aware.**

 **Here is the second part in what I've decided will be a cache of one-shots involving Ford and Fiddleford 30 years ago while they're working on the portal. They, as of now, will not be in any particular order but I'll at least attempt to maintain some manner of continuity through them all. If you think chronological order would be better, leave a little review telling me so!**

 **Please fasten your seat-belts and place all tray tables in the upright position.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Thank God for indoor plumbing.

Just when Stanford thought the nausea had passed, another wave rose in his throat. He retched silently over the bowl, the bathroom filling with the stench of sick. Foul acid coated his tongue, and tasting it, he fought back more bile. He snatched the hand towel on the edge of the sink, wiped his mouth, flushed the commode.

He pushed himself to the wall and let his head fall back softly against the wood. With his eyes closed like this, the world (almost) wasn't spinning anymore—just teetering back and forth like a cradle. He shuddered as a bead of sweat traced his jawline; his hands trembled on the floor.

Stanford really hadn't been feeling well in the past few days. Vertigo and fatigue complicated every waking hour. He'd shaken his head, downed another pot of coffee, and pushed past the illness, eager to continue his work. It was probably just a stomach virus. Maybe he'd contracted something from mold spores down in the extraterrestrial craft. Gosh, hopefully McGucket wouldn't develop the same ailment.

The heat hardly encouraged his recovery. The Gravity Falls valley scorched in the August sun's horrible convection. His house suffered equally, and opening the windows for a breeze that never came only let in the heat. So he shut himself away and spent as little time above ground as possible.

But this was the pinnacle of his illness, it had to be. His symptoms were peaking, and would soon level before vanishing completely. It couldn't get any worse than vomiting on your own bathroom floor like a college freshman that just discovered liquor. The sudden return of sick to his throat dissolved the fleeting notion that (perhaps) he'd coughed up his plague, and immediately, Stanford was again kneeling at the toilet, not without a montage of moans.

The floor outside creaked beneath footsteps. He barely heard the _rat-tat-tat_ over the blood in his ears. "Stanford?" called Fiddleford. "What's wrong?"

His knees buckled and he fell to his seat, coughing, hands unsure of where to go, what to do. He ran them through his wet mat of hair. Stanford tried to call to his colleague: "I...not feeling..." Another heave, just as violent as the last.

"What do you need?" Fiddleford asked. Clearly, he was flustered.

"I just..." Stanford tried, catching his breath. "Nothing..." _Pant pant_. "Some...water, maybe..."

"Water! Right, I can do that..." Hurried steps faded from the door and disappeared into the house.

Stanford spat into the bowl, expelling as much of the bitter taste as he could. After an eternity of post-vomit haze, he sidled back to the wall, resuming the post of one in a stupor. Breathing through his mouth, and struggling to see across the room without his glasses (he'd set them safely on the sink), he found that he couldn't quite feel his arms or legs. Millipedes rode his blood vessels up and down his forearms, storing themselves in his twelve fingertips for the sweltering winter. Outside, the sun froze itself, quite exhausted from burning.

His heart ripped its way through his sternum, tore through bone and muscle, as if swimming for the surface of some horribly black depth, gasping for air.

 _What's happening?_ Even his thoughts were trying to stay afloat. _Why...why do I...? Did I...eat...? Maybe it's...it's..._ Without his glasses, the bathroom was a cloud of wooden textures and reflective surfaces, all tinted by the sun's buzzing yellow. Stanford's eyes, as if on their own accord, lazily swept over the tiny room ( _Where's McGucket?_ ) and settled on the door's obscured knob.

Even not fully aware of himself and without his glasses, he knew it was locked. Fiddleford wouldn't be able to get in even if he wanted to. _Where is McGucket?_

The mere thought of standing made him want to hurl all over again. His right pointer finger twitched. The undulation of nerves prompted a couple more fingers to join the apprehensive digital two-step, and soon his left hand and both arms were bending.

Legs next. Toes. Moving hurt so much. This could be a virus, extraterrestrial in nature. The thought provided little comfort-he doubted any local remedies could combat an alien flu.

By some miracle or another, Stanford made it to his feet, slumping against the wall for support. The bathroom swam as he straightened and pain ripped through his frontal cortex. Seething, he pressed his palms into his eyes, creating just enough space between his back and the wall for him to lose his balance. He teetered forward, blinded by pain, thrusting out a hand wildly for the sink-wall-anything.

But his legs gave before he could find a crutch. His head knocked against the edge of the sink with a horrible _crack_ , and there was no time to make anything more than a shocked cry before collapsing in a quiet heap and welcoming the fade to black.

* * *

The usually inky violet cosmics of Stanford's mindscape swirled with golds to reflect what last he'd seen before losing consciousness. The plane pulsed and flickered with his own wavering focus. He'd never entered here through means of brute force before; the experience was turning out to be altogether both fascinating and mentally taxing. In spite of everything, though, all seemed to be in place, just where he left it last. Every memory of every page, book, and mathematical model lay exactly where it should be.

Accessing them was a tad trickier. Typically, Stanford could roam about his mind with ease, but he was horribly flustered and out of control of his swimming thoughts. He willed himself to stand in front of a series of equations, but they stayed the same distance from him with each step he took. As if to compensate, pages flew up and scattered across his vision, as if hit by a mighty gust of wind. It was all rather overwhelming.

 _What is going on?_ He thought to himself, which manifested as spoken word. "Why is this happening?" He swatted at the sheets of journal entries and scattered files, thinking them back towards their proper places, but the task, typically trivial, lashed back with crippling pain.

"Gah!" he gasped, clutching his head. He fell to his knees as his mindscape flashed with scarlet ripples. "Okay, okay. Okay!" With his surrender, pages and books went flying, swarming like hornets, whipping his face and crashing against his chest. He couldn't see past the onslaught of paper, couldn't focus long enough to fight back. He keeled forward onto his stomach, covering his head in defense against his own wild memories, praying that he might wake up.

" _Enough!_ " a familiar voice ordered into the chaos. All together, his assailants receded, fluttering down and away in the manner of low bow, and the books fell _thunk_ to the floor. Stanford opened his eyes; his cosmics had regained a little more of their darker, calmer starry hue, though streaks of gold peeked through here and there.

He sat up, his head feeling clearer now, and watched Bill Cipher hover towards him.

The muse held his hands behind his back, wearing a concerned expression. His one eye reshaped itself to show compassion. "You don't look so well, Stanford," he said. "Your mindscape is fighting itself."

Bill snapped his fingers towards Stanford and he felt himself levitating to his feet. The sensation was familiar and welcome-a sense of control and warmth.

Brushing himself off, Stanford offered a half smile. "Thank you, Bill. Yes, I'm afraid I've contracted something. I..." He stopped, embarrassed. He was going to mention that he knocked himself out, but how would that sound to Bill? He already felt so inferior to the spirit-he didn't want to appear any weaker or…any more _human_ than Bill must already see him.

But Bill finished his thought with an understanding eye: "Yeah, you didn't really plan to be here right now, did you?"

Stanford started, avoiding eye contact, but who was he kidding? He couldn't hide anything from Bill. He sighed and admitted, "No. No, I...I hit my head pretty badly, I think."

"I figured." Bill smiled as best he could. He made a gesture for Stanford to walk with him, and together, they traversed through the vastness of his memories.

"I have a confession to make, Stanford Pines," Bill began matter-of-factly. His triangular outline flashed with every word.

Stanford frowned. "Oh?"

Bill nodded. "We made an agreement, did we not? You allowed me to enter your mind freely, to aid you in your research and create a portal between the worlds."

Yes, Stanford made that deal, and Bill had proven to be nothing if not a good friend and partner. Seeing that he was waiting for a response, he agreed, "Yes, that was our deal."

Bill eased to a hovering stop in front of a painting of a ship on the high seas. He studied it for a moment. "I'm afraid I was not entirely honest with you, Stanford Pines, and I apologize for that. But I'm glad you became incapacitated when you were, for I've been meaning to tell you…"

Stanford stared at Bill, confused and apprehensive. "What is it, Bill?"

The muse eyed the painting up and down, drank in its every stroke and accent. Finally he turned to Stanford. "You are a mortal human; I am an immortal spirit with tremendous power and insight. The truth is that beings such as ourselves were never meant or designed to be spliced, and when I enter your mind, there is a long moment of strain on both of our...spiritual compositions. It's an obstacle someone such as myself, as old and powerful as I am, can overcome easily, and almost control, reflecting it like a pebble thrown at a shield." Here he snapped his fingers and a cane appeared, which he leaned on.

"You, on the other hand, had no experience prior to our communions to help you defend yourself. You were not even aware that these attacks on your body and mind were even occurring before now, but the non-physical components of your makeup channel the duress of the possession through your physical elements. In other words: your body can't handle the effects of my foreign presence. You didn't contract a virus from that alien ship, Stanford. It's not even a stomach bug. You're body is trying to expel me."

Bill let the words hang in the air for a heartbeat, allowing Stanford to process the explanation. The young genius rolled the words over in his mind, connecting the information like pieces of a puzzle. The vertigo had started days after they shook hands on the deal; the fatigue and flu-like symptoms took about a week to follow, and in between, he and Bill had to have met over two dozen times. He turned away, mind racing.

"I'm sorry I didn't warn you about this sooner, Stanford," Bill began. "I had a feeling you would be able to resist the effects. You're mind had so much potential. I assumed the same for your body, but that was my mistake." He paused. "I overestimated your limits and you are suffering for it. I truly am sorry about all this."

Stanford stiffened. 'Overestimated'? 'Mistake'?

If Bill didn't see him as weak before, he certainly did now. He expected Stanford to break the human mold, exceed his expectations and rise above. He had never felt so low before now, straightening under the gaze of a demigod like a child trying to make himself appear an inch taller. Was he just a waste of Bill's eternity? The joke of a generation? _I'd say we wasted a car trip._

He'd come so far, just to be beaten by his own humanity.

Bill continued, "I hate to stand by and watch you suffer like this, Stanford. I'm afraid it would be best if we stopped all of this and-"

"No!" Stanford almost yelled, turning back to Bill. "No, of course not!" He conjured a smile and reasoned, "I understand why you kept this from me, and I don't blame you. Now that I know the effects of our convergence, I can better combat them, and I'll provide Fiddleford with the proper instruction for the future."

Bill flashed a strange color, but he calmly requested, "Be sure not to tell him too much. You've said yourself that he is a sensitive soul, and it would do no good for him or the project if he had one more thing to worry about."

Stanford subtly breathed a sigh of relief. The project was still on. Bill wasn't going anywhere. "Of course not. He wouldn't understand. I'll just let him know about my symptoms and ask that he keep an eye on me until I grow more accustomed to the process."

Bill Cipher also seemed to relax. His eye retook its typical rounder shape. "Good. He'll do right by you, I'm sure. In the meantime, do take it easy and let McGucket do the heavy lifting for the next few days." He turned to his right and left, eyeing the cosmic sky. Stanford followed his gaze.

The indigo and golden plasma seemed to be fading, getting lighter and lighter, approaching a blanket of white. His surroundings followed lead: there went the portal model, and books began to disappear one by one. "Speaking of the good fellow," Bill laughed, shrilly but not maliciously. "Looks like you're waking up!"

* * *

Stanford jolted awake. He stared at the ceiling of his room, disoriented and dizzy. A cool cloth dripped water down his forehead and wet the hair above his ears. His head was tight with a bandage, and he was thankful for it.

"Oh, thank God. You're awake." He turned his head to Fiddleford's voice, albeit with difficulty. The young man leaned forward in his bedside chair, the worry in his blue eyes trembling in the light of the lamp. His coat was gone and splotches of sweat stained his white dress shirt. Beneath, his chest heaved with relief.

Stanford tasted the remains of bile on his tongue and grimaced. "Hey, Fiddleford," he tried, but his words rasped drily.

Fiddleford leapt into action. He snatched a pitcher of water on the bedside table and poured a glass with shaking hands. "How are you feeling? Does anything hurt? Back? Shoulders? I got your head fixed up-you were lucky. A moment sooner and who knows…" He swallowed his words, becoming aware of himself. "Anyway, here." He gently lifted Stanford's head so he could sip from the glass. He gulped it down, rinsing the disgusting taste from his teeth and tongue.

"Thank you, Fiddleford," he said, more clearly this time. "I'm a little...disoriented, and weak, but much better now."

Fiddleford was noticeably solaced. He retook his position in the chair, nodding, unsure of what to say. _The poor guy_ , Stanford thought. _Probably thinks I'm dying or something._ His eyes gravitated to the far window over his friend's shoulder where the silver waning moon bathed the floor in gray-blue light. "How long was I out?"

Fiddleford dropped his eyes. "Hours. The bathroom door was locked, and the only key was on you. You weren't answering when I called…I had to break the door down and there was blood…" Stanford watched his eyes cloud with the memory. A sensitive soul, indeed. After a moment, he shook himself from the horror and continued, "You were burning up and bleeding. I bandaged your head, but you weren't waking up so I-"

A knock came at the door, making Stanford jump. He tried to sit up but he couldn't find the strength to lift anything but his shoulders off the mattress. Besides, Fiddleford hurried to ease him back down. "Relax! I called Linda. She knows more about this stuff than I do."

Stanford fell back into his pillows, shocked and clenching his teeth. Linda McGucket was here, in his house, with the workings of a transdimensional portal two stories beneath their feet. "Fiddleford, we had a deal…" The fewer the people close to this project, the better. He didn't need word getting out about what was going on here.

Fiddleford scratched the back of his neck, more than aware of his wrong. "I know, I'm sorry. But we also agreed on exceptions in the case of an emergency." The knock on the door repeated and he moved to answer it, readjusting his glasses. With his hand on the knob, he turned back and whispered, "I panicked."

He swung the door open for a fair haired young lady in a mint green blouse and light wash jeans. Something shimmered bronze above her heart. Stanford could see her bright green eyes, even with limited light and from the other side of the room. She carried a bowl and plate on a metal tray meant for specimens or experiments, and Stanford wasn't sure if he should laugh or roar with upset. "How is he?" Her accent matched Fiddleford's own southern cadence.

"He just woke up," said Fiddleford, stepping aside for her to enter. Linda's eyes darted to the bed and met Stanford's sheepish gaze. He wasn't particularly glad about McGucket's wife being here. Not that he held anything against her. Fiddleford only ever spoke good of her, and she sounded like a darling girl, but he never was fond of strangers in his work space, or others putting their hands all over his organized clutters. He chose to keep his mouth shut, though. She _was_ taking care of him, after all.

Linda stepped into moonlight just inside the door, and Stanford could now see steam rising from the bowl in her hands. "Mr. Pines," she began, smiling kindly. "How are you feeling?"

Stanford became suddenly very mindful of himself, knowing full well that he looked like something dug up from the grave. He wanted desperately to sit up and seem a little less pathetic, but everything just felt so dead and sore-a kind of hypersensitive numbness, simultaneously oxymoronic yet manifest.

Under Linda's gaze he felt transparent, not by any boyish infatuation or shameful fantasy, but through a strange and fleeting intuition that she not only recognized his mortality, but _framed_ it in her mind.

And yet she was the first to break eye contact and instead gaze with unadulterated moonlit wonder at his twelve fingers laying limp upon the sheets. Her posture betrayed her awe, and Stanford swept aside the horrendous notion that any human could see both sides of legacy and fail to accept merely one as gospel by finally answering her question: "I feel much better. Thank you, Mrs. McGucket."

"I'm glad. And, please, just Linda, sir," she said, making for the bedside table. Fiddleford rushed ahead and made room for his wife's tray of hospitality. Now at eye-level, Stanford peered over at a plate of salted crackers and a bowl of golden broth, steaming gloriously. "Now, I don't know how hungry you are right now, but you'll have to get _something_ back in your stomach soon. Saltines, chicken broth, water, and I can make anything you think you'd keep down. Don't be afraid to just ask." The tray now empty, she tucked it under her arm and backed up to stand near her husband. Over her shoulder, Stanford and Fiddleford looked at one another. McGucket just grinned and shrugged as a way of saying, "See, she's not so bad."

Stanford just gaped and fought for words. He _really_ didn't feel like eating anything right now, but he remembered his manners. "This is wonderful, Miss-Linda. You've been more than kind."

Blushing, Linda turned to Fiddleford and wrapped an arm around him. She was half of a foot shorter than he, so her head rested comfortably on his shoulder. "I'm just glad Fiddleford called me when he did. You were in the most awful shape, Mr. Pines!"

Stanford gave the best laugh he could without racking his skull. "Just Stanford, Linda. And yes..." He gave Fiddleford a knowing look. "Thank goodness he did."

A moment of silence fell over the room as Fiddleford wrapped an arm around Linda so they were modestly pressed into one another. Stanford would have felt incredibly awkward if his thoughts were not revolving around what Bill had told him. He formulated what he would say to Fiddleford.

Linda was the first to break the silence. "I'm glad we've finally met, Stanford. I only wish it could have been under different circumstances."

Stanford nodded his agreement. "Fiddleford has told me much about you. Again, I'm very grateful for your help."

She flashed a smile. "Well, I knew Fidds would _never_ be able to lift you into bed by himself!" Stanford couldn't help but break into laughter, and he and Linda were both laughing violently at Fiddleford's deep crimson blush. "Oh come now," she said, standing on her toes to peck him affectionately on the cheek. "You _did_ break down the bathroom door."

Fiddleford broke from Linda and rubbed his right shoulder nervously. "Ha, I suppose I did. Still can't believe it…" Stanford realized he was massaging his sore shoulder.

Jokingly he asked, "You didn't splinter my door, did you?"

"Of course he didn't," Linda said. "But if you don't mind, I have something on the stove." She nodded at him, eyes bright and gentle. "It was good to meet you, Stanford." She squeezed Fiddleford's hand before dismissing herself from the room, the tray still tucked under her arm.

Stanford's eyes lingered in the doorway for a moment longer before turning to McGucket. He had a wistful look about him, almost enchanted. "Congratulations, Fiddleford," Stanford said, deciding that he couldn't remain lying down for a moment longer. He shuffled himself higher on his pillows, waving off Fiddleford when he tried to keep him flat. "She seems lovely."

"Thank you," Fiddleford said, grinning. "I'm lucky."

Stanford smiled to himself. "She calls you 'Fidds'?"

His partner breathed a laugh, shaking his head. "Always has. We're so... _different_ , she and I, but we're good for one another. I almost got sick seeing you lying there, but she's the oldest of five, and I knew she would know what to do. She got your temperature down, insisted we call for a doctor but I told her you would never forgive me-" (Stanford hated doctors and hospitals. He'd had his fill as a child) "-and she respected that. Most notably, though...yeah, she helped me carry you in here."

"And she's a waitress?"

"Yeah," Fiddleford laughed. "Did I tell you that once?"

"No," Stanford said, drawing shapes in the sheets with his third finger. "She has the mannerisms, though. An awarding winning smile…" He grinned. "And her nametag was still on her shirt."

The two men laughed together. They didn't do that often. Not anymore, at least. Things had changed since college.

Stanford dove in: "Fiddleford, I want to thank you for doing what you've done." Fiddleford tried to interject a comment but Stanford continued. "I haven't been feeling well for the past week or so, to be quite honest. Today was the first time I've been ill, but I have been perpetually dizzy for days on end. I expect this is the worst of it-just intuition. But I need you to keep an eye on me for a while. Can I ask that of you, Fiddleford?"

The young man frowned. "O-of course, Stanford, anything you need. Do you know what it is? It's...it's not _terminal_ is it?" His voice cracked slightly.

"No no, nothing like that," Stanford said. _Oh my gosh, he_ did _think I was dying!_ "I…"

He trailed off momentarily. Fiddleford stared at him intensely, awaiting what he would say. Eyes so trusting, knowing, wise, though he would never believe himself to be so. But he couldn't tell him the truth, not now. Not when he looked like this, bandaged and the worst definition of sickly. Fiddleford could never understand what his agreement with Bill meant for them both and the project, especially after the day's ordeal.

He would tell him. One day.

"I think it was something from the spacecraft," he said. "Some form of alien virus, I suspect. Thankfully, I'm already feeling much better, so you needn't worry about it too much. Just be there for me, okay?"

Fiddleford nodded vigorously, saying, "I will! Of course! I hope you're right about it passing, but I insist you let me do some blood tests, just to be sure."

Stanford agreed to it silently, not wanting to speak any more falsehoods. The one had been enough to make him feel nauseous all over again. After a moment, he asked that Fiddleford pour him another glass of water, and he downed three more after. He even ate a couple saltines, not wanting to further insult Linda McGucket's courtesy.

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 **[AN]: Please favorite and leave a review to let me know what you may think! Constructive criticism is always welcome (:**

 **Bill's a wily jerk, and Stanford is an adorable jerk, and Fiddleford is just adorable. I love writing these three.**

 ** _Where Do I Sign?_ followers: Fear not! Esther is alive and well (*obscure hand motion* eh...) but, unlike her, I've got college stuff making me want to curl up and sleep forever and I'm writing a play and I'm in a production-BUT NO EXCUSES. Expect a little Carols family reunion in the near future...**

 **(If you happen to have any questions about the ending or Ford feeling "transparent" around Linda or anything of the sort, feel free to message me. I'm experimenting with abstract concepts and symbolism-thank you AP Lit-and while I may get it, I totally won't get mad if you don't)**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~~Iridian~~**


	3. In Retrospect

**[AN]:** **Here's a bit of drama to get me back into the swing of things.**

 **Enjoy!**

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"I proposed to Linda last night."

Looking back several years later on that afternoon, Stanford wished he had responded differently.

"Why?"

Fiddleford's whole body seemed to slacken. His brilliant smile withered as easily as it had appeared. His shoulders drooped, and the paper he studied in his hand tilted as his grip weakened. He stared, confused, at Stanford with wide blue eyes. "Well, I…" he started. "Because I love her, that's why."

Stanford bit his lower lip, refusing to look up at Fiddleford. He hadn't meant to say that, he _really_ hadn't. He wanted McGucket to think he was supportive of the whole idea. Afterall, Fiddleford had always been there to back him in his own endeavors, both personal and professional. What kind of friend would he be if he ever let on that he thought _marriage_ wasn't the best idea at present?

Apparently, a pretty lousy one.

He pretended to write something incredibly important in his second journal, leaning over his desk with the visage of a man with intent. Fiddleford wasn't buying it. "Don't you think it's a good idea?" After a pause, he said in hurt revelation, "You don't…"

There was a long silence from both of them. Stanford's fountain pen came to a stop over time, bleeding ink onto the journal page in a large blackish-blue splotch. He'd spoken too rashly last time, a mistake he was not keen on making twice, so he formulated his next words carefully, prolonging the pause in their...discussion. "I never said that it wasn't a good idea," he began.

Fiddleford's voice came from a different location behind Stanford. He was further away now, probably sitting on the couch on the other side of the room, but his words were just as clear as if he were shouting. "You didn't have to. Anyone who asks why their friend is getting married obviously has some level of reserve."

He sounded too defeated for Stanford not to turn and face him, and sure enough, Fiddleford was on the sofa, welcoming the warmth of the spring afternoon sun as it poured through the colored glass. The man had a habit of biting his nails under pressure, and his doubt was currently gnawing them to the quick. "You think it won't last, right? Because I'm just a mechanic-turned-engineer-turned-mechanic with nothing to offer, and you're probably right."

Stanford stood, shaking his head. "That's not true."

Fiddleford tore his hands from his teeth and clasped them between his knees instead, looking Stanford straight in the eye. "Of course it is. I don't have twelve PhDs. I'm only smart enough to build a transdimensional gateway, but let's be real, what good is that to a girl with a part time job and thousands to pay in student loans?"

"Fiddleford!" Stanford said roughly, holding his hands in front of him. "I'm not saying _any_ of this. I'm just saying that maybe…look, I will support you in your decision, and I wish you both every happiness! But...well, I suppose the _timing_ is just a little shocking."

His partner frowned, mouth hanging open. "I told you two weeks ago what I was planning! I...I asked you for your opinion on the ring!"

He _had_ , too. He'd found a cluster of diamonds no larger than peas behind a waterfall in the forest. Stanford was sure the gnomes would show up at their door any day now, demanding their gems back. Fiddleford had scrimped and saved for a stoneless silver band and put the diamond in himself, approaching Stanford with the finished product and its purpose two weeks ago. He never actually thought he would go through with it…

He stuttered, "Of course, I remember. I just…" He hadn't been terribly focused when McGucket said he would give it to Linda at dinner. "I assumed that you would…" That he would explain his plans to stay in Gravity Falls to be with her. "There's a lot of work to be done here, Fiddleford and-"

And that was the limit. Fiddleford shot from his seat, fury in his eyes. "Is _that_ what this is about? You're worried about the _project?_ You're afraid I'll abandon it? Get distracted?"

"I know that women are always distractions whether they want to be or not, and I know how much Linda means to you so I-"

"No," Fiddleford raised his voice over Stanford's. "You clearly don't! If you did, you wouldn't be asking me to reconsider!" He pushed past Stanford, or rather, through him, making for the hallway.

Stanford followed, but he couldn't control his tongue. The words flowed faster than he could dam them. "There are priorities, Fiddleford! We're so close; do you really think it's worth it?"

Having hung his lab coat on the rack and thrown on his brown tweed jacket, Fiddleford took a visible breath and adjusted his glasses. At his sides, his fingers flexed and trembled, and he stood, facing away from his friend, with incredible posture. For a moment, Stanford almost believed that his words had snapped McGucket out of his rage, and opened his eyes to the task at hand. But the fist flying towards him quickly convinced him otherwise.

The blow threw him back, by sheer force and shock, into the opposite wall. He had to catch himself on an end table, sending an obscure textbook tumbling to the floor. Blinking through involuntary tears and clutching the bridge of his nose, he looked up at a towering Fiddleford, rubbing the knuckles on his right hand and seething. Clenching his jaw defined the muscles in his neck. He felt as though he'd awakened a force darker than anything he'd found in Gravity Falls.

"There _are_ priorities, Stanford," Fiddleford began, calmly, but with an unmistakable edge. "I think we both know what ours are. But just because you're married to your research, that doesn't mean I have to be." Turning, he grabbed the door handle, but paused to add, "I would abandon this project before I abandon Linda. If you're not okay with that, find yourself another engineer."

The door slammed shut.

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 **[AN]: Please leave a review to tell me what you think, favorite, and add to your alerts because these two are not going away any time soon!**

 **No, Fiddleford is not gone. He just needed a walk to cool down, and who can blame him?**

 **Poor Ford, though...**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **~~Iridian~~**


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